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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382486">An Asterisk</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahsmindpalace/pseuds/leahsmindpalace'>leahsmindpalace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (TV 2018), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Album: Atlas: Enneagram (Sleeping at Last), Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Grantaire, Based on the song “Three” by Sleeping At Last, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Boyfriends, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Painting, Self-Acceptance, Songfic, True Love, enjoltaire - Freeform, even though R is def a 4w3, its cute, ive been writing angst since 2015 and i aint stoppin now kids, they have a dog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:14:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382486</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahsmindpalace/pseuds/leahsmindpalace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire relapses again.</p><p>Enjolras revises his boyfriend’s newest painting.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras &amp; Grantaire (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), enjoltaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>An Asterisk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I had just wanted to walk home that day in peace and quiet, but my demons were in full swing. It had been a rough day, to say the least. A commissioned painting that simply wasn’t good enough swung at my side with each step. The client paid me, not nearly the full price, but for time and materials. They said to just take it home with me, and they’d have someone else do it. This interaction had hurt my pride maybe even more than it did my bank account. I didn’t want to throw my hard work in the bin, though the painting wasn’t very fitting for Enjolras and I’s flat; a portrait of an old man, commissioned by his daughter for his 100th birthday. That old man had real balls to live on this deplorable planet this long. Good for him. The gesture was nice, but now I had to figure this shit out. </p><p>“There’s no way I can come back with this,” I mutter to myself, still a bit pissed off. My feet hurt from walking all day, delivering paintings, running errands, and walking the dog. Stupid German Shepherds that need so much exercise but yet never get fucking tired. Fuck. “Enjolras is gonna make a stupid joke about and it’s gonna set me off.” </p><p>I know my boyfriend just barely pokes fun, certainly not the way I do, but when he does it just sounds so soft that it seems almost sincere. I have a difficult time differentiating emotions. So does he. Mine is from trauma and anxiety, his is simple lack of understanding of emotions in general. I don’t resent him for his differences and he doesn’t resent me for mine. We have an understanding like that. I love him, but...my current circumstance is simply embarrassing. </p><p>Failure. Failure. Failure.<br/>
This is not just A failure, I AM a failure.</p><p>When these voices come I’m supposed to focus on positive things about myself and my life and...bleh. It’s just so much easier to understand the logic of that train of thought when the real shit isn’t happening. But I try anyway, for sobriety’s sake, to not let myself spiral. </p><p>“I’m a good person.” I puff out as I pace home, the cold air accentuating my words in the form of tiny droplets of water that appear like a small, fleeting, misty cloud. “And I recognize that I don’t have to have a drink right now. I can fucking do this, even though I had a shit day, and failed again. I can do this. I don’t need to drink.”</p><p>But fuck. Shit. I did let myself drink, and I let myself spiral. Not long after that, I’d gone to the store and gotten some vodka. A lot of it. I love alcohol. Fuck. I love it. I love how it makes me feel warm instead of so SO cold, how it lets me forget, how it helps me manage my anxiety about work and relationships and obligations, how it makes me stop shaking, how it takes the physical pain away and for a only just a moment, the mental pain too. </p><p>I wake up on Bahorel’s couch the next morning, the painting leaning against the coffee table. “Agh...” I sit up, and immediately appreciate seeing the glass of water and acetaminophen there too. I don’t even notice him sitting in the chair to my right until he speaks. </p><p>“Grantaire?” Bahorel says, a soft and even mixture of disappointment and concern in his voice. “How ya doin’, buddy?”</p><p>I stay silent, sitting up slowly. What do I even say? I feel kinda okay, physically. Besides the pounding headache. Mentally? Emotionally? I feel like an absolute fuck-up. Try as I might, I can’t hide my emotions. Tears well up in my eyes, and I shrug. I’m an uneducated chronic alcoholic with an ugly nose and an even uglier soul. And I fail everyone who cares about me. Everyone.</p><p>After giving me a chance to respond, Bahorel’s voice cuts through the silence once again. “You actually called me, that’s why you’re here. I’m sure you...well, you were probably too drunk at the time to remember this now. But I’m proud of you. And I called Enjolras, he’s on his way.”</p><p>I push away the deep feelings his words make me feel and in an attempt to change the subject, pick the painting up, and turn it towards him. “Can you believe this shit? She said that I gave him too many wrinkles. This old bastard is ninety-nine, like what the shit...?” This earns a smirk from Rel.</p><p>We mumble for a few minutes about nothing in particular until the knock on the door sounds. I feel myself start to shake, as if I would be “in trouble.”Why hello, childhood trauma, thank you for your appearance in these difficult times. </p><p>Enjolras walks in, looking concerned and sad. I force myself to look at him. “Hey, wanna go home?” He asks with a softness that I don’t deserve. I simply nod in response, trying not to crack. “Thank you, Bahorel.” Enj nods at him as we make our way out and to the car.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say quietly, facing the window.</p><p>“You know we have to, love.” Enj sighs. “I’m not mad, I’m just w-“</p><p>“Disappointed?”</p><p>“Worried.” He corrects me. “I’m worried about you, R.” </p><p>“Sorry.” I bite my lip, holding back tears yet again. I’m not usually a crier, and I don’t want to add a newer and deeper depth of emotion for Enjolras to deal with right now.</p><p>“Juno has been missing you all morning, she’ll be glad to see you home.” He smiles, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. </p><p>I smile too, and try not to think about the reason I wasn’t home to take care of our dog. When we arrive home she greets me with an amount of energy and joy that, again, I don’t deserve. “Hi, baby! Hi, Juno! Good girl!” I coo, giving her every amount of energy I can muster up.</p><p>Enjolras takes the painting to my studio for me, and I sit down with the dog. </p><p>“What made you relapse?” He says upon coming back out, and I grimace.</p><p>“I...I don’t know. I guess I just felt like a failure. Again.” I shrug. “But I feel even worse now having spent all the money I actually did make on alcohol. This shit is embarrassing.” </p><p>“Don’t be embarrassed, ‘Taire.” Enjolras puts an arm around me. “Relapse is ju-“</p><p>“Just a part of recovery? I fucking know! I know this from the last three times!” I stand up, not wanting to be touched now. “Enj, I don’t know how to fix myself! That’s a stupid phrase. Relapse isn’t a part of recovery! It’s a part of failure! Infinite fuckin’ failure!”</p><p>“Beating yourself up isn’t going to help you fix anything, Grantaire, it’s just going to make you feel worse.” He sighs, seemingly unaffected by my outburst. “And actually? It’s going to hinder your recovery more than help it. Forgive yourself. Try.”</p><p>“Easier said than done...” </p><p>“Yeah, it is. Most things are.” He stands now and wraps his lanky arms around me. I melt in relief into his arms, despite again feeling undeserving. “I love you, I’m with you, and we’re going to get through this, okay?”</p><p>I nod against his shoulder, getting choked up yet again. “I’m so tired, Enjolras. I’m tired of living with myself.” </p><p> </p><p>“You will always be wherever you are. So it’s time to get along with yourself.” He half-jokes, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I love you, though.” </p><p>“I...I love you too.” </p><p> </p><p>Later that night, I am in my studio again, and decide to add to the stupid painting, putting a black line through the old man’s eyes. At least now it look like some kind of weird modern statement piece. A bit strange, but I could at least sell it or hang it up without wanting to off myself. </p><p>“That’s a nice choice.” Enjolras smirks from behind me, standing in the door now with two cups of tea and a curious Juno not far behind him. “What are you going to do with it?”</p><p>“I may sell it to someone who doesn’t know any better. May keep it. May toss it in the bin.” I take the tea and set it beside me, shrugging. “Feel free to add anything you want.” </p><p>“I couldn’t do that.” Enj laughs heartily, throwing his head back. “That’s not a good choice, like, can you imagine how shit it would look if I just started going to town?” He pulls up the only other chair in the room and sits beside me.</p><p>“Listen, nothing can make it any worse.” I laugh in return, though there is a twinge of sadness that escapes humorlessly. </p><p>The three of us sit in silence for a few moments until my boyfriend speaks again, “You know, Grantaire, this painting is kind of like your relapses in a way.” </p><p>I raise an eyebrow at him, prompting him to continue. “How so?”</p><p> </p><p>“That you seem to view it as all that you are, like it defines you. But you fail to remember it’s just a small part of your work, and of your person.” He takes a small sip of tea, letting his words steep in the silence for a moment, “But it really doesn’t mean anything significant. Because in reality you’re a wonderful artist and a wonderful man.” </p><p>I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Enjolras.” I choke out and again he kisses my head before heading over to my paint. “What are you doing?” </p><p>“Adding my own bit to the painting now.” He grins, turning around to face me again with my white paint.</p><p>I’m a little surprised at this, but watch in nervous and humored anticipation. “Go ahead.” I answer, and wipe my tired eyes. </p><p>He takes a small flat brush, making three lines collide in white paint into an asterisk over the black line. Then, on the black line I had previously painted over the man’s eyes, in the most imperfect and beautiful cursive, Enjolras writes words that break my heart with their sincerity.




 “Worthy of love anyway.”</p>
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